


Of Typewriters and Baseball Gloves

by Riverdalerider99



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, basically bobby does christmas for sam and dean and that's all!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 20:36:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9018337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riverdalerider99/pseuds/Riverdalerider99
Summary: John leaves Sam and Dean with Bobby for Christmas. Bobby tries to give the boys a Christmas they deserve.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beekeepercain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/gifts).



> Written for tumblr user @beekeepercain for the BSGC Secret Santa hosted on tumblr. Happy holidays, I hope you enjoy the fic!! :)

“Well, boys, looks like it’s just you and me for Christmas,” Bobby says as the Impala’s growl fades into the distance. Sam’s little face falls, and Bobby sees Dean’s jaw clench almost imperceptibly. It’s times like these that Bobby thinks he could shoot John, he really could.

“C’mon, what do you say we get you settled in? Sam, why don’t you go dump your and Dean’s bags in the spare room, and Dean, go grab some clean sheets -- you know where to get them, right?”

Dean nods, and Bobby wishes they would say something, give some sign of being the carefree little boys they should be. “Alright, then, both of you come back when you’ve finished setting up the beds.”

Bobby watches as they scurry up the stairs, then hurries into his study. He wishes John would give him some warning, at the very least, instead of dumping his kids in Bobby’s care on Christmas Day without giving Bobby time to find presents. Skimming the shelves quickly, he grabs his old baseball glove. It’s large, but soft and broken in, and it’ll have to do for Dean. Sam, Bobby knows, will be a little harder. What do you give a four-year-old when you’re shopping out of your own study? Hell, Bobby barely knows what even safe to give four-year-old. Then again, it’s not like Sam is living a particularly safe life to begin with.

The creaking of the floorboards above his head seems to be lessening, and Bobby knows he doesn’t have much time. Finally, he remembers his old typewriter. It’s nothing like the fancy fake cash registers he’s seen in stores, with their bright plastic buttons, but it’s got keys Sam can press and it dings when it reaches the end of a line. Surely, it’ll entertain Sam. 

Bobby’s just managed to dig out the typewriter and stash it under his desk along with the glove for Dean when he hears little feet on his stairs.

“Bobby! We made the beds an’ put our toothbrushes in the bathroom an’ everything!” Sam’s voice comes from the hallway. Bobby smiles. He’s glad Sam, at least, has cheered up. When Bobby goes out to meet them by the stairwell, he sees Sam has his hand entwined firmly in one of the belt loops on Dean’s jeans. His smile gets a little wider.

“Alright, then, how about we see what we can rustle up for a Christmas dinner? Dean, can you check that cupboard there, grab the big pan?”

“Yes, si- I mean, Bobby.”

“Attaboy. Sam, let’s go try and find that can of cranberry sauce I was saving for you boys.”

“Okay.”

Sam transfers his hand from Dean’s belt loop into Bobby’s hand, gripping surprisingly tightly for such a shrimp. 

Bobby somehow manages to find the means to make a Christmas meal closer to the ones he knows proper families have -- nothing like the one he was planning on having before John showed up. That was more likely to be a beer and reheated beans over a book of lore. Instead, he thaws a chicken breast, reheats the beans, finds a can of green beans, and they have a right feast by Bobby’s standards. It’s not that special, in the grand scheme of things, but he can tell Sam and Dean liked getting to help him make it. Bobby helped Dean carve the chicken, guiding his hand as they held the knife together, and Sam got to do all the plating. Of course, the end result is that their plates look more like an arts and crafts project, but the food is good nonetheless, and Sam and Dean aren’t the picky types. Besides, the satisfied looks on the boys’ faces are worth a little mess in Bobby’s book.

After they’ve finished clearing the table -- Dean tried to start doing the dishes, but Bobby stopped him -- Bobby takes them to his study.

“Now, it ain’t much, but I got you boys some presents.”

“Really?”

“Bobby, y’didn’t have to do that for us.”

“Psh, of course I did. Kids get presents on Christmas.” Bobby aches to think that this seems to be a new thing for Sam and Dean. “Anyway, it ain’t wrapped or anything, but here you go.”

He hands the glove to Dean first, then busies himself with lugging the typewriter out after he spots a suspicious sheen over Dean’s eyes. Kid like Dean, it’s better to give the kid a moment alone.

“Woah!”

Bobby spends the rest of the evening alternating between playing catch with Dean and watching Sam amuse himself with the keys of the typewriter. He teaches Sam how to load the paper into the slot at the top, and how to turn the handle to move to the next line when the machine dings. The kid can’t read or write yet, so he’s mostly just typing out nonsense, but he seems to be having a good time, and Bobby’s glad he’s enjoying himself. He always loves seeing Sam come out of his shell.

Finally, when Dean’s moved from asking if Bobby well play catch with him to half-heartedly throwing the ball up into the air and catching it from where he’s lying on the floor, clearly exhausted, and poor Sam as already nodded off, drooling on the keys of the typewriter, Bobby claps his hands.

“Alright boys, time for bed. Dean, why don’t you go upstairs and get ready, and I’ll bring this troublemaker in once I wake him up.”

Dean nods and stumbles up the stairs, and Bobby gently shakes Sam awake. He makes sure both of them brush their teeth before tucking them into the camp beds in his spare room. They ain’t much, but the boys always seem to sleep fine.

“Thanks, Bobby,” comes Dean’s sleepy voice just as Bobby’s leaving the room.

“Yeah, thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby’s not sure Sam’s even awake as he echoes his brother, but it’s adorable just the same.

“Night, boys.”

Two days later, John’s back, and off the boys go again (Bobby has them leave the presents in the spare room, promising they’ll be there the next time they visit). But right before they leave, Sam runs up to Bobby, grabbing him around the legs. Bobby ruffles his hair, bending down on creaky knees until he’s eye level with Sam.

“What’s up, boy?”

“I jus’ wanted to say thank you. For the typewriter. It’s really cool.”

Sam’s smile could melt ice. Bobby smiles back. “Anytime, kid.”


End file.
